Professional Casanova
by R. R. Grokesyn
Summary: There are two types of people in the world: players and 'playees'; in my world, only the former survive.
1. Meet Richard Grant

_It's been an awfully long time since I publish something here - I have tons of drafts in my computer, ideas, entire scripts, sometimes almost a screenplay of a story and, nope, I never go any further. Until now. Part of this publication is due to one of my best friends encouraging me so much; I would never have dreamt of publishing this chapter without her. The other part is a personal matter, one of my (silly) beliefs that writing is a pathway to solving your own problems, since it always reflects some aspect of what's being sorted out inside, without you have to going freaking insane to deal with it. Again, a silly concept, but I like to think of it as true._

_So, pleasantries and acknowledgements: said best friend should be more than thanked, without her, I wouldn't have worked this hard on getting it done. Also, please note that I am only using J.K. Rowling's world and some of her characters - I am awarded nothing for this, except for my own satisfaction and some writing experience. Finally, I have yet another person to thank, who reviewed the earliest, crappiest version of this story (before I gender swapped the main character due to believability issues); I doubt she will read this, but if she does, I bow to her as well._

_Help needed!: even though I do have a reviewer (said friend, mentioned a couple times now), I am afraid to overburden her with story discussions and corrections, since I am working way harder on this than I expected. So, if a kind soul could take part of the burden of discussing and reviewing this story, that'll be brilliant._

_A note on 'Nature of My Game', for all of you frustrated that I didn't go past chapter one – I'm sorry, I truly am, but my thoughts are bigger, badder and darker for know, and I outgrew the set up for high school drama momentarily. I do hope that, when I get back to it, I can tune it to perfection, and portrait Astoria Greengrass in all her wicked, careless glory._  
_A note on 'Change on Life's River', which for some reason received some compliments (my fifteen year old self is pleased): that story was part of a bigger plan, a more badass one, that has tons of extra information, and revamps the world of magic quite a lot; there has been a dramatic shift for sorcerers in my mind as the idea incubated so, if I am to write more of that, expect a complete change of pace, even a change of heart, for that one._

_Happy reading, folks!  
_

_Update: This first chapter is now beta-ed by the lovely and competent FireBurnsBrighter – thank you so so much!_

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Chapter I: Meet Richard Grant

I wake up incarcerated to a chair in a white room, with a single table and no windows. A strong man is standing right before me, a very familiar one – Ethan. As soon as he notices my conscious state, he punches me on the face. I keep my eyes closed for a bit and try to recover from the blow.

"I have to say I am pleased to finally do that. And I am going to be more than happy to see you leave for Azkaban this evening"

"What?"

Here I am, on the verge of being thrown into nobody's land among thieves, murderers and other threats to society's order, like the dangerous criminal I am – or people forced me to become; at least, that's my take on it. It wasn't always this way, though…

"Richard Grant", the sorting hat called out, making me tremble like the shy, scared little boy I was. I walked slowly, taking in the overwhelming Great Hall, very conscious of my breath, trying not to notice the whispers ('oh, dear, he has metallic teeth!', followed by giggles) or the obvious stares.

I sat in the diminished stow and put on the old fabric hat, as I've seen others before me do, extremely uncomfortable from being the centre of attention in the large, majestic room.

A little voice popped in my head, disrupting my self conscious thoughts, "My, my, you have ambition, lad!", I looked up, silently telling him how senseless his comment was; he just ignored and continued, "and guts...", and suddenly, he was quiet, for a whole, long minute. A minute where worrying thoughts duelled in my head – I was part worried that the hat got it completely wrong and part wondering what kind of things he saw to be so silent; little did I know, back in the day...

"You'll have to trust me on this, Richard", the voice reemerged, interrupting my inner dialogue, "I think you'll do better in Slytherin", the last part was shouted to the entire Great Hall. A few claps emerged, but it was hardly the elation other people faced, and my young self wondered why.

"You'll be great, trust me, kid – give it some time...", I heard the last whisper of the Sorting Hat before I took the shameful walk to the emptiest part of the Slytherin table. At the time I didn't know why the warm reception, but it didn't take me too long to figure it out. After our tour through the castle, I heard a blond boy calling out.

"Hey, mudblood!", I imagined it to be an insult, despite my lack of knowledge of the wizarding world, so I tried to ignore it, "hey, hey, I'm talking to you", he stopped in front of me, a condescending sneer across his face and two tall "bodyguards" to back him up. I raised my head to him and met his eye, "you don't belong here, so don't you dare entering the common room again, is that clear?"

"Yeah, go check Gryffindor instead, they're sure to house all kinds of freaks", a pug faced girl added and both laughed, causing the groups with them to mimic their behaviour. I found out later that this situation is typically Slytherin – a leader, Draco boy in this case, makes the joke and people just tag along; if they didn't, they'd just turn into... well, me.

That night I waited until late hours and sneaked through the wall in the dungeons, despite the warning from my colleagues – guts, right, Mr. Sorting Hat? –, and into my designated bed.

"You clearly didn't take us seriously", I opened my eyes to find Draco staring back at me, "you heard me, mudblood, you don't belong here, you don't have the right to put your paws in this room – Salazar Slytherin said it himself", With my eyes fully opened, I sat down in bed and I looked back at him, my brain more occupied with important tasks, like remembering where I put my robes and figuring out what time it was, than actually listening.

"What?", I said reflexively.

"You don't have the right to sleep here, you filthy muggle", and he pushed me, causing my head to smack painfully against the wall, "Oh, Merlin, your teeth are really ugly! People were right! Look at that, Blaise", and the other boy giggled, while the Draco chuckled; I pressed my lips together forcefully and concentrated. I needed to get out of there, so I took the first, opportunity - when they faced each other to burst out laughing again- and ran like hell.

"Mudblood! So nice to see you", Draco smirked as I made my way to the lunch table.

"Hi, Draco", I took a seat and lowered my head, gobbling my food – nothing good could come out that smirk.

"Draco told me you have the prettiest smile", I closed my eyes, but -unfortunately- it didn't shield me from the giggles, "don't be shy, show it to us", Pansy added

"What is it about his smile?", a boy near Pansy wondered aloud.

"It's metallic and ugly!"

"Metallic? How?", a girl besides Pansy said.

I felt my eyes filling with tears, so I got up in a hurry, spilling my plate all over my robes making my colleagues break out in laughter. I gasped in surprise, exposing my teeth for a brief moment.

"Look, Daph, I told you!", and my eyes met the Daphne girl's green ones – she was a blonde, all dolled up, including a green headband to complete the portrait contrasting with the very carefully brushed blonde locks. It's kind of amazing how clearly I remember that useless, pitiful moment of my life, when Daphne was just part of the choir of laughter Draco conducted; as if, in the back of my mind, I knew exactly how important she'd be. After registering the moment, I just fled to the nearest place I could be alone, which turned out to be the library. I sat on the farthest table and muffled my crying, the Sorting Hat's words, "you'll be great, trust me, kid", ringing over and over in my head. The situation repeated itself over the years, but I eventually became a tough snake like the rest of them.

"Oh, Merlin, someone used Furunculus on your face again, Grant!", Pansy, Daphne and Blaise responded with laughs, like the good pack they were.

"And I see your boyfriend came on your hair again, Malfoy – someone has to tell you that's not very stylish", he grabbed his wand and bared his teeth; the laughs ceased, too, like always.

"You filthy..."

"Mudblood? Wow, you're on a creative streak today", I got my own wand, "Piss off, Malfoy, I'm not in the mood for your wit and charms", and I turned to go, very attentive to any movement... ah, there it is!

"Anteoculatia!"

"Protego!", the only spell I actually need in here, "better luck next time, blondie", and I disappeared through the wall.

By my last year, I was sick and tired of all that. I received all the hexes on the book – on all of the books, actually; was called all names possible and was mocked for every little flaw I dreamt of having. So much for greatness from the Slytherin house, Mr. Sorting Hat! The only thing I actually took from the dreadful place was a profound hatred for all things pureblood, so I fled from the wizarding world, especially with the war threat growing.

With no muggle education, the best I could get was a bartender job in muggle London, working from Sunday to Sunday, earning a glass of milk and a piece of bread a day. It was very likeable, though.

"Richard, darling, fetch me a martini, will you? I have lots to tell!"

"Rich! How are you doing, fella? Can you give your old chap a beer? I deserve it for an awesome lacrosse game! You see, we won..."

"The usual, Richard; I had a tough day, my boss..."

"Honey, we're celebrating! I've been promoted, Rich! Get a vodka for you and one for me, the best one you have!"

It was 'round midnight, as Monk would play, and the bar was pleasantly crowded, full of recurring customers. Then, a brunette I never saw before sat down at the bar. She was a very elegant cougar, in her early thirties – not that it mattered, though, since all attention was on her blue dress and her dangerous eyes.

"Can you bring me the wine chart, please?", she sat across from me. From all of my years of bartending, I learnt one very important thing: going for the kill. It was reflex, and became a part of me; there was an amazing satisfaction in spotting an attractive woman and just knowing she'd be part of my list of conquests very soon, no matter how special she thought she was. The more special she thought she was, the better the hunt.

"Sure can, ma'm", I eyed her a bit, cocky lady – just my type – and I decided to gamble, "but I'm under the impression I can choose a lovely wine for you"

"Really?", she seemed quite amused, and smirked in an I'm-too-good-for-you fashion, raising the stakes for the chase and my own amusement.

"Yes, I have a Cabernet Sauvignon, blended with Syrah, Grand Reserve, 2011, from Chile – quite something, in my opinion", and I showed her the bottle, "have a glass, if you don't like it, it's on me"

"Deal", she stained the glass with her red lipstick, never breaking her eye contact; from that moment on, I knew she was something else.

Eight years later, I walked into the office of the same woman, whose name, Amanda Barton, became not only known to me, but to the entire wizarding world: she topped the most wanted list on more than twenty countries and made top ten in all the remaining ones – a remarkable achievement, maintained for several years. Yes, Amanda Barton was never, ever caught. See? My gut feeling was right, she was something else entirely: the criminal mastermind of the wizarding world, an international fugitive, and my boss.

"Richard, honey, I have a new job for you – a challenge", Amanda smiled adorably and twisted a long strand of hair with her finger.

"Is that so?", I smirked a tad, taking in my boss' charm – eight years and she looked even more beautiful, fancy that! I took a seat in the leather chair and leant back, putting my feet on the desk in mock defiance.

"I love that suit on you, by the way, makes you look like the home-wrecker you are", then she tossed a couple of files on the table, "although I must say your manners don't match it at all"

"Of course you do, Amanda, sweetheart", I skimmed over the files, "you always love my suits; and my manners", I eyed her provocatively, then the first page drew my attention, "Daphne Greengrass? Is that your great challenge?"

"Yes", there it was, the confident stare competition that says, 'I'm dead serious'; I called it bollocks, of course.

"I'm hurt of how low you must think of me", my very husky tone caused her to grin.

"I never, sweetheart; you know you're the only employee who I took home"

"To bind me and offer me a job"

"Yes, and that's how good you are; I preferred this to a very promising lay", I opened my mouth to flirt back, but she continued with business – typical Amanda, "Daphne has an interesting profile for a woman of her age and status. For starters, she has a sister, Astoria, but you must know that already"

"I do. I met Astoria back at school, she's quite something"

"Astoria has more affairs than pairs of shoes, with both men and women- though the latter is far more frequent. Summing up, a shame to the Greengrass family. That doubles the responsibility on Daphne's shoulders of keeping the image. Add that to her single status..."

"She's single? That's strange, I recall her being beautiful; she was dating Draco Malfoy when I last saw her", I looked through the pictures again – the girl hadn't aged a day.

"Yes and yes. She's never been married. I have yet to find out why – I first suspected it having something to do with her being a workaholic, but that's not much of a reason, given Hermione Granger's married"

"I'd be a workaholic too, if I was married to that", Amanda chuckled.

"About Draco, they broke off four years ago and right after that, she was promoted to her current position in the Ministry – the motive for the split up is unknown, even for my best sources. I spent some time trying to extract some information from her; nearly impossible, the girl doesn't go out at all- only for work, and a date or two", I raised an eyebrow, "I know that makes your job pretty much impossible, so I forged a better situation: you have an interview on Tuesday for the butler position in Greengrass Manor – you only have to look sharp and say the right things – you have one shot", I narrowed my eyes and sneered.

"Roger that, Ms. Barton"

"Now, onto you. Your name, from now on, is James Bailey. I prepared a stock of your medicine, daily polyjuice included".

I would then spend the week extracting my memories and crafting new ones, to convincingly become James Bailey.

I started the preparations immediately: I took my first polyjuice of the week and looked myself in the mirror. I was also curious about the looks Amanda chose for me this time; not worried, though, I knew she had quite the taste in men. I stared at the mirror to my reflection: thick eyebrows, falling over my squinted black eyes, with a nicely proportional nose, a well shaped, marked mouth and framed by a prominent jaw line and slightly wavy locks, styled to perfection – classic male beauty. I smiled cockily at my reflection... no, wait. Gapped front teeth, really?

"I knew you wouldn't like the teeth", Amanda appeared behind me, "but it looks adorable on you", I eyed her in annoyance. I was used to having perfectly aligned teeth and would flash my smile to punctuate the most daring flirts – the same smile that cost me years of mockery to fix was now one of my most powerful assets; at least, when I was between jobs, since I was never allowed to keep my appearance, or my name, while working.

Memories, on the other hand, were a much more complicated issue as they were a risk to the scheme itself. Many of the people I 'worked with' were powerful witches, or had some powerful sidekicks that could competently check minds for suspicious information –, but could prove useful for most of the jobs because, supporting popular belief, women act similarly in many situations, especially in comparison to their own social circle. Because of that, I was allowed to keep my memories in a box only accessible to me; any attempt to break in would destroy the contents – not the best situation, but certainly preferable to being sent to Azkaban.

I would lock those in my room and only open it after assuring all access to my room and mind was impossible – both spells were tuned to perfection, since my life depended on them. Then I would strategise and, finally, lock them away again for good.

For the rest of the week, Amanda put me through Mr. Bailey's memories, a half-blooded wizard, twenty five years old, born in Liverpool, but French in heart, since he supposedly went to Beauxbatons Academy and lived in France most of his life. A heartbreaker too, I might add; dated the top three prettiest girls in his school, at the same time; was only discovered after school has ended – he then moved to Switzerland, and recently, because of his numerous affairs in Geneva, he was forced to flee a couple of angry husbands and moved to London, seeking a fresh start and a job.

"What the bloody hell were you thinking when you created these memories?", I motioned to stand up after we were done with the first session of memories, but Amanda, who was behind me, forced me back to my seat pushing with both hands on my shoulders.

"They suit you, darling"

"They won't convince Daphne I'm the person for the job, Amanda!", I shot back at her, seeing she moved to my side, one hand still on my shoulder.

"Time of month, is it James?", she teased, lifting my chin slightly with two fingers, then tracking my jaw line.

"That's chauvinist, you know?", I saw through the full body mirror in front of us that she smiled in reply and motioned her hand to the side idly, her mannerism that meant 'back to business'.

"Those memories have the sole purpose of convincing whoever reads your mind that you're a desirable young guy – you know women are, sometimes they need a little push for action, and implied competition can do the trick"

"Of course I know that!", I felt a mild irritation towards her obvious remark – I was a professional, after all, and I used that countless times.

"Darling, you can't show it explicitly this time. Remember, in her house, you're the butler, any flirt towards other people means you lose your job. However, you're allowed to be this way in your personal life; that's none of her business", she smirked, pleased and positioned herself directly in front of me, "I see I successfully confronted every clever reply you might have. You look adorable when you pout, by the way", she purred, bending so our eyes were levelled, her index finger tracing my lips; then, she kissed me lightly, leaving traces of her lipstick on my mouth, "I envy Daphne, you look so handsome", she caressed my thigh slowly. I tried to focus on my breath, to avoid the reaction from my body to her teasing, which continued as she planted a trail of kisses down my neck.

"You're so good at this", she caressed my crotch, trying to feel how well I resisted to the minutes of torture, "if I didn't know better, I'd say you're gay. Or maybe I'm losing my touch", I pulled her towards me, making her fall seated on my lap.

"I assure you, you aren't", and I enthusiastically kissed her: my boss, the most dangerous woman in the wizarding world. To my surprise she kissed me back fully, and even let out a moan when I pulled her closer, followed by a satisfied smile when she felt what she was waiting for.

"My, my, James, aren't you bold today? Too bad my policies didn't change", she said while I kissed her on the neck, making me think her self control was nothing short of amazing. She freed herself gently from my grip and stood up, "As your boss, I'm afraid I have to punish you for your misbehaviour – I promise to make it useful, though", she got her wand and bound my hands at the back of the chair and she created a couple of illusions, all sex scenes. I sighed in disbelief - this was cruel, even for her, "I would try to make the most out of it, if I were you – think of it as extra resistance training", and she left.

The next day I was exhausted, but Amanda didn't pity me – instead, she put me through another memories sequence, my previous work experiences, which included a watch salesman in Geneva; a hotel guest relations staff in Paris, which was my longest job; a cook, also in Paris; and a housekeeper and butler in a French castle in Lorraine. Now I was, indeed, perfect for the job.

Besides my resistance training, which happened hourly in the week, Amanda made sure I could do all my assigned tasks, and we started talking in French. I sharpened my cooking and learnt to make a bed in half a minute. By the end of the week, I was making coffee as an Italian, cooking as a French, behaving like English royalty and standing still like a soldier – I'd never felt so ready.

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_Author PS: I am completely lazy nowadays to rummage through fanfiction archive, read an entire haystack of bad stories until I finally find a favourite worthy needle, so if any of you can send me recommendations of great stories you came across (or even wrote, if you're modest like myself!), I am much obliged. __Also, please tell me what you think, it is the sole reason I publish my stories; I will, of course, take every feedback into account._


	2. The Interview

_Update: Again, my gratitude to my beta reader, FireBurnsBrighter, who patiently dotted my i's and crossed my t's; most importantly, who removed the comma excess. Thank you very, very much!_

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Chapter II: The Interview

Every single person in this world has a cheat sheet, a very clear roadmap that marks the steps to make him or her fall in love – you uncover it, you win the game. Of course, that doesn't come as a surprise to most people- it's fairly common sense. The surprise is that, in a twenty minute interaction, every person makes the main points in the roadmap clear as water, and filling the gaps is just arithmetic; call it simple logic, if you prefer – it doesn't change the fact that it takes only twenty minutes.

Here, let me prove it.

"James Bailey, right?", Astoria answered the door to Greengrass Manor with the biggest smile; her eyes roved slowly over me and I could see the appreciative sparkle in them - I'm amused. To make it even more obvious, she bit her lower lip gently, "please come in"

"Thank you, Ms. Greengrass", she didn't move from the door, instead she leant on it, her shoulder on the frame, a cocky grin plastered on her face.

"No, Ms. Greengrass is my sister, James. The name's Astoria", she smiled and I couldn't fail to notice how... grown up she looked since I last saw her. No wonder people were lining at her bedroom's door. Also, the light Scottish accent became more evident as she talked this time; it suited her carefree attitude perfectly.

"As you wish, Ms. Astoria", she chuckled and frowned lightly.

"No, Jamie- just drop the miss thing, okay?", Astoria winked in a flirty, light hearted, Scottish way – I was half surprised she hadn't offered me single malt whisky yet to compliment the flirt.

In that moment I could focus on the girl better – her light make up, clear lipstick tone and absence of jewellery didn't surprise me, suited my framework of her perfectly. The obvious flirts were surprising to an extend; Astoria wasn't known from her fondness of men, though she did have a handful of guys in her history. It didn't compare to her list of 'done' women, so the fact made me quite proud.

Of course, you can say I was cheating on my "twenty minutes rule" example, because I knew her background story, but watch the scene for a second: the blatant flirt and over confidence – that points to player, straight away, and pretty obviously; the nickname she immediately adopted with me suggests a younger crowd, which I knew to be true, since she was twenty four, and certainly a less formal one than the wealthy wizarding families. I could tell she thought I had the same profile as her – rich, pretty, rule bending boy, that is – which was what made me get the immediate attention.

To test the hypothesis, I hinted a smile, which implied I was trying to hide my fondness of her treatment of me (thus confirming her expectations), and pushed her away verbally (supposedly to maintain my job offer, but in reality to trigger her player instincts) – tremendously useful technique, known as multi-level communication, a subtler variant of the widely known push-pull, where you contradict your body language with your speech.

"I am sorry, Ms. Astoria, but I hardly think I am in the position for such intimacies", her eyes twinkled and she bit her lip; I could see the fascination in her green eyes and her reforming grin. The prey is more difficult than she thought, but within reach- a challenge that made her visibly excited: player mindset. She was going to try harder.

"I don't really mind, Jamie; intimacy is just a matter of time", and she reached to stroke my cheek: unnecessary contact to implicate dominance, and to raise sexual tension with women; I was not surprised, since she had many more girl-conquests.

In this five minute exchange, I can make a fairly good assumption about how to win the girl over. Players fall for games, and a clever push-pull, which is their favourite technique, works wonders on them, especially if they're not aware of it. They have to feel like they have the upper hand at all times, and when they feel slightly secure…

"I am truly sorry, Ms. Astoria, but is Ms. Daphne Greengrass home? I have an appointment with her", this time, I pretended to be embarrassed, making her think she had overdone it, judging by her look of surprise. She was probably worrying about her mistake, the obsessing tendency would make me stay on her mind for quite a while. Wash, rinse, repeat – she'd be head over heels in a couple of weeks, as soon as she started mistaking the constant thought for infatuation. For now, she'll just leave it, and cease the flirting until she has rethought her strategy.

"Yes, she is – lemme call her for you"

See? Who needs mind reading?

"Mr. Bailey, please come in and make yourself comfortable", the more strict, calculated tone of Daphne Greengrass made itself clear and my eyes darted to her elegant, poised figure as she descended the marble staircase. The slow path she took from the top of the stairs to the armchair beside the comfortable-looking sofa I was standing in front of gave me plenty of time to analyse my conquest-to-be.

One look at Daphne and any commoner could tell she was an aristocrat: her copper blonde hair didn't have a single strand loose, it was tied back in a formal, high ponytail by a black hair clip adorned with little diamonds; a discrete matching necklace rested atop her collarbones, ornamented with similar gemstones; a black one in the middle, slightly bigger than its companions – judging by the size and the craft, it would be foolish of me to assume an onyx, so it was most certainly a black diamond. Of course the ensemble was mounted in platinum.

Another glance revealed her career orientation: she was meeting with me at her own home, and yet she looked like she was going to meet the Queen of England for diplomatic affairs, with her black tailleur – skirt and jacket, naturally – and equally black pumps – stiletto four inches heels, as expected too.

I could see her surprise as she scanned my figure, I couldn't place the reason, but I noticed her elegantly mascara-coated blue eyes become more attentive – her diplomatic senses tingled and she was discreetly on guard, a fact that she hid so well I almost missed it.

"Thank you, Ms. Greengrass", I waited for her to sit down, as Amanda instructed, 'you always wait for the lady seat before you do'. The behaviour didn't go unnoticed by the woman, who spent several seconds in front of the armchair before sitting down, presumably to study my reaction. Then she sat down, keeping her legs together and her back impossibly straight.

"Thank you for your application, Mr. Bailey", she opened the folder in her elegant hands, skimmed through, and raised her eyes.

"My pleasure", I was yet to get used to the bass tonality of my new voice, so it came out deeper that I imagined, but soft. Fortunately, allied with the curt nod I gave, it didn't imply any flirtation, just a submissive answer, which was exactly what I was going for.

"You have excellent recommendations from your former employers, I am impressed", I hinted a smile and paid attention to her hands; her right hand gently caressed the paper, an unconscious sign of strategising – I could tell she was still suspicious, and had yet to decide how to approach without accusing, "please tell me about your time in Lorraine, which I assume to be the most similar job to the one I am currently offering"

I proceeded to tell her the tale of my work at the castle, owned by a muggle-born wizard and his muggle wife, a duchess in the muggle world. Due to their connection to the magical world, they maintained surprising few people in the staff: the gardener, a skilled french woman; myself, butler, housekeeper to the family's rooms and cook; and two more housekeepers for the common rooms and stables. She paid keen attention to my story, as if searching for holes that would back her suspicion, and pouted briefly (and discreetly, of course) when she didn't seem to find any.

'All diplomats have intrinsic paranoia', Amanda remarked a few days prior to my interview at Greengrass Manor. 'they know there is something bigger at play than their own interests and privacy; as public figures and representatives of magic in their countries, slips can make the news and cause wars. Naturally, there are people that are searching actively for those cracks in the surface and a scapegoat to hide their own malicious intentions. Expect that she'll be looking all over for it, and do not misplace a word'.

"Your employer seems very fond of you, and you of him", I smiled, to agree with her on the affirmative, "I am having a hard time picturing the reason that made you quit, in the circumstances"

"I had personal issues in France, when I was young and foolish", she couldn't hide her satisfaction, and I felt myself on thin ice.

"What sort of trouble, may I ask?"

"Of course. Girl trouble – got my heart broken, had to watch the woman I loved marry someone else"

"I am sorry to hear that", she seemed genuinely apologetic, as if she somehow had to endure the same situation in her life – Draco, maybe?

"No problem, Ms. Greengrass, it has healed well over the years", her anxiety became evident; she wasn't expecting the answer, so she was rerouting her interview, more carefully not to step on my bruises again. However, she had to do it quickly and effectively, as appearing shaken was one mistake she wouldn't like to commit. She smiled, finally, and took my left hand, eyes on my watch.

"Gorgeous piece", and she eyed me, I noticed where she was getting at – with my previous salaries I would never ever be able to afford that Patek Philippe.

"A present from my former employer, for doubling the sales twice, in two years. Cannot say I was not skeptical myself when she gave it me- I kept wondering if she was hitting on me – turns out it was only genuine appreciation, which was a relief", I chuckled lightly and she smiled in reply; she obviously didn't believe the woman wasn't trying to charm me, heightening the implied competition effect Amanda mentioned earlier.

"It matches your suit very well, handkerchief included"

"Thank you, Ms. Greengrass, I put it together myself", my left hand was still on her right one, though I hadn't figured out why, maybe to check reflex movement.

"Great tailoring, also", she was clearly digging to find the gap between my salaries and my clothing.

"Yes – the perks of working in a high end store: I was obliged to wear designer clothes; luckily they have a deal with a couple of those, so I got a great price on most of my expensive-looking attires, and a keen interest in fashion"

"A handy skill, for a diplomat's butler", her friendly comment made me tense, I had a feeling she wasn't going to give up so soon. She leant back, letting go of my hand, a movement that was probably calculated to make me relax, and make the mistake she was looking for. I leant back myself – a famous technique to express affinity, used widely, mostly unconsciously, but its conscious usage is as effective. She reopened her file and eyed it briefly before shooting the next question.

"Your file also says you have professional cooking experience, is that correct?"

"Yes, a bistro in Paris, when I was younger, inside the hotel I later became guest relations"

"I see. Did you prepare breakfast?"

"I did"

"Excellent. Allow me to talk about the offer, so we can be on the same page", I nodded, "you would work every day, except for Sundays, and sleep in the staff room. Your duties include housekeeping of all the common and guest rooms, cooking breakfast and dinner on the weekdays, plus lunch on Saturdays; you also are in charge of the wine cellar and pantry, which probably does not surprise you"

"Indeed it does not"

"On some special occasions, I might need you on Sundays, I will provide a warning at least a week in advance, and we can move your free day to a Saturday"

"Sounds fair"

"Perfect, I will do some further analysis and inform you", she stood up and I mimicked the motion. Again she waited a moment before she started escorting me to the door, but this time, she also broke the silence, "do you have any questions?"

"No, Ms. Greengrass"

"Then please let me show you the door"

"Thank you"

On my way back, I took a path to my decoy apartment in wizarding London and apparating from inside to near Amanda's office, in muggle London. While I was walking, I decided Daphne was the first one that didn't fit my twenty minutes theory. I spent one hour face to face with the woman and I didn't have any marks on my roadmap, let alone a plan. Her actions seemed so perfectly calculated I couldn't exactly figure out what was genuinely her and what she was setting up for me to believe. Maybe she did relax when she leant back, even though I was quite sure it was a plan.

I got to Amanda's office with a frown, which made her flash a light hearted smile – from the eight years she and I worked together, she knew a frown was me being puzzled, not me screwing it up. She also learnt to leave me alone until I wrapped my head around the problem, so she didn't utter a word when she saw me.

I took off my dinner jacket and put it on the chair, heading for the pensieve nearby – the single tool that made me so skilled in body language, because it allowed me to analyse scenes over and over again. A drop of my thoughts and there was I in Greengrass Manor all over again. The beginning of the exchange seemed fine, she was trying to find inconsistencies in my story and appearance; this was already clear when the scene happened the first time – now is was obvious.

After she leant back, I observed her eye contact didn't break, except when she eyed the folder to ask me the next question. She didn't seem relaxed, her feet maintained the exact same position on the floor (and trust me, feet are the most honest part of your body), which points to her trying to deceive me, as I concluded earlier, but she didn't actually do it – or the worse variant, I didn't notice it. Oh, no, Legilimency! Is it possible?

"Amanda, how…", I opened the door in a hurry.

"Well versed are diplomats in Legilimency? Very. And in Occlumency – both sides of the coin are important for the type of work she's involved. You think she attacked you?"

"Quite sure"

"Lots of eye contact?"

"Uninterrupted, almost"

"It's almost certain, indeed – should I be worried?"

"I don't know – I didn't relax entirely, but I kept expecting a verbal reaction, which never came", Amanda sighed in annoyance.

"Let's sit back and wait, shall we, darling?"

I sat back in my office, rubbing my forehead, afraid of what she might have found, and frustrated that -with all my training- the girl bested me almost flawlessly: I had neither a clear idea of her personality, nor a plan, and it was beating the hell out of me.


	3. Achilles' Hell

_'To write is human, to edit is divine' (Stephen King) – thank you, once again, for the marvellous work, FireBurnsBrighter._

* * *

Chapter III: Achilles' Heel

"James, darling", Amanda appeared in my office, "how many times have you gone through that scene?". She pointed at the pensieve, which still had ripples on its surface.

"A thousand, at least - I lost count after that". I gazed the ceiling tiredly, letting my head rest on the back of my leather chair. She sat on my table, facing me, and gave me an intense gaze with an expression that a quick analysis concluded to be a mixture of concern and impatience.

"You don't like to babysit my frustration, do you?", I whispered hoarsely- not in a seduction attempt, but due to utter exhaustion – I couldn't really manage to do better. Her responding smirk said it all.

"I don't, and I'm wondering why the overreaction; hardly seems like you", my breath became increasingly evident to my conscious mind and I tried to make some sense of it all. I opened my mouth to reply, but she cut me off, "a great deal of your job is confidence, James; if you continue to shake at every unknown step, Daphne will read you in less than five second. Remember what your mentor used to say: 'make a decision...' "

" '...and assume it will be ok - if you display total certainty, it will often be' ", I completed her sentence. I knew the words by heart, and it had been my mantra for a very long time.

"Besides, you two merely set the board and did your openings. The game has yet to begin", she circled me slowly, right hand sliding between my shoulder blades and across the back of my neck; then she stopped behind me and whispered in my ear, "Let the polyjuice wear off, go home and take the day off tomorrow, so you can clear your mind. When you're back on Thursday, I expect no more of your diva tantrums; did I make myself clear, darling?"

"Crystal."

"That's a very gay word, even for you", I chuckled. She then started a backrub and I leant into her hands, eyes closing slowly and a dizziness coming over me. I moved my hand to my jaw to feel that my stubble was back, "perfect timing, polyjuice!", she exclaimed as she noticed my blond locks coming through. "Now change your clothes and go fuck your tension away, casanova", I grinned and turned to face her, our height difference now more significant.

"Thank you for the support, Amanda", I grabbed her hand and kissed the back of it.

"No need to get all lovey dovey towards me, it's my job. Now go!", she walked back to her own office, and left me chuckling to myself.

I apparated home in only my tanktop undershirt and a pair of jeans I leave in the office; I never bring my character clothing home, it can make a powerful association between me and my alter egos – I also leave James' (and all others) memories in the office, no need for them outside my working hours and, again, an incriminating piece of evidence; not that I really thought the Law Enforcement department had detectives this competent, but I wouldn't want to take my chances on that.

I opened a beer and chose my clothing for the night – not that it really mattered for most girls; a fine body language and the right actions will usually do. The thought was entertaining- to go to the best muggle London nightclub in jeans and tanktop, see how far I could get with the pretty girls. I took a satisfied swig and proceeded to groom myself – I could never pass up a shower and clean clothes after the amount of cold sweat today.

I arrived at the club with a half finished cigarette in my mouth, and shook hands with the doorman.

"How's it going, Jeremy?", he patted my back.

"Good, Rich, good! It's been forever since I last saw you, though. What have you been up to?"

"Travelling, having fun, the good life. Fancy a cigarette, mate?"

"Uh, don't put your old fella into temptation, Rich; not fair", and the huge man laughed. I laughed along and scanned the line, predictably full of boring-suited guys trying to look cool and girls with body hugging dresses; nothing particularly interesting. Then a sharply dressed man walked past the line towards us, looking at his mobile. He was the only one who worked up the courage to get out of the navy blue or black pattern – he sported a grey suit and a charcoal shirt, with an equally black bowtie. I single glance and I knew who he was.

"Richard Grant, my goodness!", and he pulled me into a manly hug, patting my back twice while at it.

"Your tailor is a brilliant man, Antonio", I grinned, gesturing at his jacket.

"Thank you, my friend! I hope you're joining the party today!"

"Most certainly I am"

"Fantastic! Let's go inside, I have plenty of people I want you to meet"

"Wait, I have to",I eyed a girl in a green dress going out of a sports car, led by her idiotic looking boyfriend, "finish my cigarette". I flicked said cigarette onto the sidewalk. Antonio chuckled and murmured something about me never changing. I leant against the wall, staring indiscreetly, waiting for her to break the eye contact that was established. It took a good while – even her boyfriend became aware of the situation.

"Shall we?", I turned to Antonio and we went inside without another glance.

"Bloody you and your obsession with gingers", I laughed, but the comment triggered a disturbing feeling I couldn't place. The feeling was back went the girl finally got inside, boyfriend still in toll. I was sure she reminded me of someone, that was all; I couldn't tell who, or why it was bothering me.

"I'm going to the terrace to smoke", I told the pretty brunette I was talking to, "be right back". 'Be right back', in this case, was substitute for 'I don't want company'; she was plainly into me, but fortunately got the message. I lit up one and looked at the London skyline – with a view like this, I wouldn't dare saying Paris was the only 'City of Lights'; London came damn close to it, especially on nights like these.

I was not surprised to see the ginger from earlier alone and a few feet from me, smoking a cigarette of her own. I waited patiently for her to almost finish it – after that, it was showtime.

"Excuse me, do you have a lighter I could borrow?", I approach, cigarette lit in my mouth and a lighter in my right hand, visible to her. She smiled, puzzled – I could tell she was receptive.

"I do", the hesitation was evident, exactly my objective.

"Great, I might need a backup to light your next cigarette, which in turn is your excuse to stay here and get to know me better", she laughed adorably and put another cigarette between her pinkish lips. I put my hand gently on her shoulder – a seemingly natural gesture, but calculated in reality: touch is the best way to create intimacy and sexual tension – and neared her to light it. See? Confidence is indeed my best friend.

"This is the most beautiful view in the world", the hand slipped from her shoulder to become an arm around her and I gazed into the distance, careful not to attract attention to my bold physical escalation, "Really, I've seen the City of Lights a thousand times, it isn't as magnificent as the heart of London. You probably know that already, you look like a girl", and I paused, looked at her intently, "who's been around", I drop my arm from around her and let out a chuckle that makes her playfully hit me on the arm.

"You bastard", she laughed.

This entire scenario is almost a pick-up lesson: it begins romantic, but I quickly break it off, to ensure she won't find me completely insane from being all romantic in five minute – the romance is necessary, though; it makes the feeling of attraction stronger, even though it's a joke. At the same time, the punchline makes her see me as an 'adorable arsehole', another stereotype that makes positive associations.

"What, I meant around the world!", I gave her a mock indignation expression and smirked, "I did! An elegantly dressed woman like yourself wouldn't pass the opportunity of shopping in Paris", I was awarded a full smile for my comment, "a bold conclusion, I know, especially because, as a Londoner, you don't have to go that far"

"How do you know?"

"It was an educated guess, though the accent did help. I'm Richard, by the way", assumptions make a great part of my job, it helps me find information without the boring interview-like questions. If I had got it wrong, she would probably say 'no, I'm actually from...', which is exactly what I wanted. Of course, there are bonus points for getting it right.

"Audrey", she flashed her dimples at me, which is adorable.

"Lovely name – your namesake's done lots of movies that are guilty pleasures of mine, but don't tell anyone", I brought my index to my lips, "they always think I'm gay when I say it", I winked and she smiled contently, making her clear eyes squint a tad. I didn't break eye contact and we stood in silence for a few moments. The wind gave me a leg-up and blew a lock of hair in her face, giving me the perfect excuse to reach for it and tuck it behind her ear. We didn't break eye contact when this happened, the sexual tension was going through the roof and- as soon as she took a discrete glance at my lips- I went for the kiss.

It was brief, but the perfect appetizer for a long night; now I only needed to figure out what to do with the boyfriend and… she looked at me and my discomfort was back at full throttle. With guilt, lots of it – I realised I was possibly risking a relationship for my own relief of tension and vanity. The overwhelm made my thoughts cloudy.

"Look, Audrey", I paused, and she pulled me into another kiss, which I ended due to my internal confusion.

"You're concerned about my boyfriend", wow, she's good!

"Yes – and I'm a player", I was surprised with my sudden honesty, "I won't call you back and you'd break up with your boyfriend for nothing", dear God, what was wrong with me! I never bloody cared! I wasted a great opportunity of sleeping with this gorgeous girl for nothing. When I came to my senses, she was gazing deeply into my eyes, with a distinct look of hurt. Upon that situation, the only thing I could say was, "I'm sorry", she turned and left.

Now I was mad at myself. What. the. bloody. hell! I got another beer and sat down in a corner, in deep thought. Her defencelessness towards my advances bothered me deeply, which never had happened before and I felt a – fuck, I didn't actually believe it at the time – protective instinct in that single moment. I took a long jug of my beer, gaze still lost in the crowd. I spotted her dancing with her boyfriend in the middle of the dance floor. She had a sad smile on her face, but of course the guy didn't notice it; they never do. After that, I wondered if I would make a good boyfriend and, when I became aware of this general line of thought, I burst out laughing – a bitter laugh, but a laugh nonetheless. I looked at the pair again and the guy went away, probably to get drinks. Before I realised, I was on my feet, writing my phone on a napkin and darting in her direction: I had a plan.

"Audrey!"

"Oh, hi Richard", she smiled politely, clearly embarrassed.

"Listen, I'm sorry for earlier...",

"It's…"

"No, not ok. I was rude..."

"Yes", she crossed her arms – this was going to be hard.

"The point is: you seem like a lovely girl, and I would love to get to know you better, but I'm going abroad the day after tomorrow and staying there for at least a year, I don't have the time to", she seemed surprised and I looked at her honestly, "join me for a walk at Hyde Park tomorrow, please", and I put the napkin in her hand. It was the best course of action; I needed more time to figure out what made her so special. She finally smiled.

"I'll think about it", I smiled back.

"Please do. Oh, and have we met before?"

"Not that I recall it", and I looked into her eyes.

"That's strange, you seem very familiar. Well, I hope to see you soon"

Later that night, I took a random brunette to a hotel room in muggle London and it was… fun, sort of. Fun for a vanity fuck, which is mainly what I do. It's kind of amazing how the game is surprisingly easy when you don't care about the person. However, it did make me wonder how much better it would be if it was Audrey. The next day, I left early in the morning, not even bothering to leave a brief note. It later occurred me that my excessive cruelty was to compensate my niceties with the ginger.

At noon, I received a text from Audrey and went to meet her, with a fashionable double breasted trench coat and button down shirt; she appeared shortly after, in a trench coat herself.

"Burberry loves you"

"You know designers?"

"I know, I know, gay points for me"

"Besides charming women and knowing designers, what else do you do?"

"You mean there's more to the world? Oh my God!", we both laughed and that was the start of an incredibly pleasant afternoon. Friendly, with romantic undertones.

"Why are you with him?", I asked out of the blue, after a while of idle talk.

"Was, you mean", I scowled in confusion, "we broke up yesterday; the situation with you left clear to me that I don't appreciate him that much anymore. I decided to give myself a chance to find someone that I had sparkle and I can be with", she stressed the last part, possibly afraid of my interpretation of her actions.

"Wow"

"Indeed", she smiled, "but I had a feeling that there was something wrong with that relationship for a while"

At the end of it, I had a very clear picture of where the guilt came from: she was so open, so authentic that I couldn't help but feel an enormous amount of respect and fondness. I even wanted to get myself a woman like that after my inevitable retirement from work.

"You're a formidable woman, Audrey", I blurted the summary of my current thoughts, and she seemed amazed, "I mean it. I hope you do get a partner as great as you", she then looked disconcerted, and eyed the floor. In all my social prowess, I swear I didn't see this one coming, "did I say something wrong?"

"No, no, I… forget it, please", see? I was that bad at being nice!

"I'm sorry", I didn't know exactly what I was apologising for, but it reflected perfectly the way I felt: guilty, horribly guilty.

"It's ok", I couldn't help but analyse what caused the outburst, she was well aware of my rejection… I decided to leave it and I changed the subject entirely and we were back to chatting excitedly in no time. Finally we exchanged emails and went our separate ways – I was satisfied with my answer, and warm hearted that a friendship was likely to blossom. Very unlike me, I know, but even cold blooded snakes like myself needed those once in a while; and my last friend- well, it has been a while.

On Friday morning I was woken early to a tapping on my window, despite my infinite sleepiness – Amanda apparently missed me on Wednesday, so she compensated by going late into the night with my training on Thursday. By the way, at said training, I finally figured out the familiarity issue with Audrey: she had a Daphne quality to her appearance that made me uneasy, possibly because Daphne herself was tense subject in my head. Of course, without the memory of my meeting with Daphne, I couldn't place it.

Anyway, back to my reason of being awake: a huge brown owl with a roll of parchment strapped to its leg. I got up groggily and untied it, then took forever to read the curt, straight-forward note:

'Dear Mr. James Bailey,

Please report tomorrow (Saturday 5th) to Greengrass Manor at 9am sharp so we can make the final arrangements in relation to your employment.

Regards,

Daphne Greengrass'

I put the parchment on my night table and moved back to bed, but the owl simply stood there and hooted. Oh, so it wanted me to answer straight away. I sighed and looked for ink and a quill. Once I found them – and believe me, with the level of my mental activity, it took a while– I scribbled in the back of the original parchment:

'Dear Ms. Daphne Greengrass,

Thank you for your note. I am confirming my presence tomorrow at Greengrass Manor, 9am.

Yours truly,

James Bailey'


End file.
